The Seashell Anthology of Great Poetry Page 9

  Perfect, with his feet together,

  His head down, evenly breathing,

  As the sun poured up from the sea

  And the headsman broke down

  In a blaze of tears, in that light

  Of the thin, long human frame

  Upside down in its own strange joy,

  And, if some other one had not told him,

  Would have cut off the feet

  Instead of the head,

  And if Armstrong had not presently risen

  In kingly, round-shouldered attendance,

  And then knelt down in himself

  Beside his hacked, glittering grave, having done

  All things in this life that he could.

  James Dickey, 1959

  Next | TOC> The Highwayman> Robinson

  Reuben Bright

  Because he was a butcher and thereby

  Did earn an honest living (and did right),

  I would not have you think that Reuben Bright

  Was any more a brute than you or I;

  For when they told him that his wife must die,

  He stared at them, and shook with grief

  and fright,

  And cried like a great baby half that night,

  And made the women cry to see him cry.

  And after she was dead, and he had paid

  The singers and the sexton and the rest,

  He packed a lot of things that she had made

  Most mournfully away in an old chest

  Of hers, and put some chopped-up cedar boughs

  In with them, and tore down the slaughter house.

  Edward Arlington Robinson, 1897

  Next | TOC> The Highwayman> Knight

  Hard Rock Returns to Prison from

  the Hospital for the Criminal

  Insane

  Hard Rock was 'known not to take no shit

  From nobody,' and he had the scars to prove it:

  Split purple lips, lumped ears, welts above

  His yellow eyes, and one long scar that cut

  Across his temple and plowed through a thick

  Canopy of kinky hair.

  The WORD was that Hard Rock wasn't a

  mean nigger

  Anymore, that the doctors had bored a hole in

  his head,

  Cut out part of his brain, and shot electricity

  Through the rest. When they brought Hard

  Rock back,

  Handcuffed and chained, he was turned

  loose,

  Like a freshly gelded stallion, to try his new

  status.

  And we all waited and watched, like indians

  at a corral,

  To see if the WORD was true.

  As we waited we wrapped ourselves in the cloak

  Of his exploits: 'Man, the last time, it took eight

  Screws to put him in the Hole.' 'Yeah, remember

  when he

  Smacked the captain with his dinner tray?' 'He set

  The record for time in the Hole—67 straight days!'

  'O! Hard Rock! man, that's one crazy nigger.'

  And then the jewel of a myth that Hard Rock had

  once bit

  A screw on the thumb and poisoned him with

  syphilitic spit.

  The testing came, to see if Hard Rock was

  really tame.

  A hillbilly called him a black son of a bitch

  And didn't lose his teeth, a screw who knew

  Hard Rock

  From before shook him down and barked

  in his face.

  And Hard Rock did nothing. Just grinned

  and looked silly,

  His eyes empty like knot holes in a fence.

  And even after we discovered that it took

  Hard Rock

  Exactly 3 minutes to tell you his first name,

  We told ourselves that he had just wised up,

  Was being cool; but we could not fool ourselves

  for long,

  And we turned away, our eyes on the ground.

  Crushed.

  He had been our Destroyer, the doer of things

  We dreamed of doing but could not bring

  ourselves to do,

  The fears of years, like a biting whip,

  Had cut grooves too deeply across our backs.

  Etheridge Knight, 1968

  Next | TOC> The Highwayman> Snodgrass

  The Examination

  Under the thick beams of that swirly smoking

  light,

  The black robes are clustering, huddled in

  together.

  Hunching their shoulders, they spread short,

  broad sleeves like night-

  Black grackles' wings and reach out bone-yellow

  leather-

  y fingers, each to each. They are prepared.

  Each turns

  His single eye—or since one can't discern

  their eyes,

  That reflective, single, moon-pale disc which

  burns

  Over each brow—to watch this uncouth shape

  that lies

  Strapped to their table. One probes with

  his ragged nails

  The slate-sharp calf, explores the thigh and

  the lean thews

  Of the groin. Others raise, red as piratic sails,

  His wing, stretching, trying the pectoral sinews.

  One runs his finger down the whet of that cruel

  Golden beak, lifts back the horny lids from

  the eyes,

  Peers down in one bright eye, malign as a jewel,

  And steps back suddenly, "He is anaesthetized?"

  "He is. He is. Yes. Yes." The tallest of them, bent

  Down by the head, rises, "This drug possesses

  powers

  Sufficient to still all gods in this firmament.

  This is Garuda who was fierce. He's yours for

  hours.

  "We shall continue, please." Now, once again,

  he bends

  To the skull, and its clamped tissues. Into the

  cranial cavity, he plunges both of his hands

  Like obstetric forceps and lifts out the

  great brain,

  Holds it aloft, then gives it to the next who stands

  Beside him. Each, in turn, accepts it, although

  loath,

  Turns it this way, that way, feels it between

  his hands

  Like a wasp's nest or some sickening outsized

  growth.

  They must decide what thoughts each part of it

  must think;

  They tap at, then listen beside, each suspect lobe;

  Next, with a crow's quill dipped into India ink,

  Mark on its surface, as if on a map or globe,

  Those dangerous areas which need to be excised.

  They rinse it, then apply antiseptics to it.

  Now silver saws appear which, inch by inch, slice

  Through its ancient folds and ridges, like thick

  suet.

  It's rinsed, dried, and daubed with thick salves.

  The smoky saws

  Are scrubbed, re-sterilized, and polished

  till they gleam.

  The brain is repacked in its case. Pinched in their

  claws,

  Glimmering needles stitch it up, that leave

  no seam.

  Meantime, one of them has set blinders

  to the eyes,

  Inserted light packing beneath each of the ears

  And caulked the nostrils in. One, with thin twine,

  ties

  The genitals off. With long wooden-handled

  shears,

  Another chops pinions out of the scarlet wings.

  It's hoped that with disuse he will forget the sky

  Or, at least, in time, learn, among other things,

  To fly no higher than his superiors fly.

  Well; th
at's a beginning. The next time, they

  can split

  His tongue and teach him to talk correctly,

  can give

  Him opinions on fine books and choose

  clothing fit

  For the integrated area where he'll live.

  Their candidate may live to give them thanks

  one day.

  He will recover and may hope for such success

  He might return to join their ranks. Bowing away,

  They nod, whispering, "One of ours;

  one of ours. Yes

  Yes."

  W. D. Snodgrass, 1961

  Next | TOC> The Highwayman> Carroll

  The Walrus and the Carpenter

  The sun was shining on the sea,

  Shining with all his might:

  He did his very best to make

  The billows smooth and bright—

  And this was odd, because it was

  The middle of the night.

  The moon was shining sulkily,

  Because she thought the sun

  Had got no business to be there

  After the day was done—

  "It's very rude of him," she said,

  "To come and spoil the fun!"

  The sea was wet as wet could be,

  The sands were dry as dry.

  You could not see a cloud, because

  No cloud was in the sky:

  No birds were flying overhead—

  There were no birds to fly.

  The Walrus and the Carpenter

  Were walking close at hand:

  They wept like anything to see

  Such quantities of sand.

  "If this were only cleared away,"

  They said, "it would be grand!"

  "If seven maids with seven mops

  Swept it for half a year,

  Do you suppose," the Walrus said,

  "That they could get it clear?"

  "I doubt it," said the Carpenter,

  And shed a bitter tear.

  "O Oysters, come and walk with us!"

  The Walrus did beseech.

  "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,

  Along the briny beach:

  We cannot do with more than four,

  To give a hand to each."

  The eldest Oyster looked at him,

  But never a word he said:

  The eldest Oyster winked his eye,

  And shook his heavy head—

  Meaning to say he did not choose

  To leave the oyster-bed.

  But four young Oysters hurried up,

  All eager for the treat:

  Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,

  Their shoes were clean and neat—

  And this was odd, because, you know,

  They hadn't any feet.

  Four other Oysters followed them,

  And yet another four;

  And thick and fast they came at last,

  And more, and more, and more—

  All hopping through the frothy waves,

  And scrambling to the shore.

  The Walrus and the Carpenter

  Walked on a mile or so,

  And then they rested on a rock

  Conveniently low:

  And all the little Oysters stood

  And waited in a row.

  "The time has come," the Walrus said,

  "To talk of many things:

  Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—

  Of cabbages—and kings—

  And why the sea is boiling hot—

  And whether pigs have wings."

  "But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,

  "Before we have our chat;

  For some of us are out of breath,

  And all of us are fat!"

  "No hurry!" said the Carpenter.

  They thanked him much for that.

  "A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,

  "Is what we chiefly need:

  Pepper and vinegar besides

  Are very good indeed—

  Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,

  We can begin to feed."

  "But not on us!" the Oysters cried,

  Turning a little blue.

  "After such kindness, that would be

  A dismal thing to do!"

  "The night is fine," the Walrus said.

  "Do you admire the view?"

  "It was so kind of you to come!

  And you are very nice!"

  The Carpenter said nothing but

  "Cut us another slice.

  I wish you were not quite so deaf—

  I've had to ask you twice!"

  "It seems a shame," the Walrus said,

  "To play them such a trick,

  After we've brought them out so far,

  And made them trot so quick!"

  The Carpenter said nothing but

  "The butter's spread too thick!"

  "I weep for you," the Walrus said:

  "I deeply sympathize."

  With sobs and tears he sorted out

  Those of the largest size,

  Holding his pocket-handkerchief

  Before his streaming eyes.

  "O Oysters," said the Carpenter,

  "You've had a pleasant run!

  Shall we be trotting home again?"

  But answer came there none—

  And this was scarcely odd, because

  They'd eaten every one.

  Lewis Carroll, 1872

  Next | TOC> The Highwayman> Scott

  Mrs. Severin

  Mrs. Severin came home from the Methodist

  Encampment,

  Climbed naked to the diningroom table and

  lay down.

  She was alone at the time but naturally told

  of it afterward.

  "Lord! Lord!" she had called out. "Thou seest me.

  Wherein is my fault?"

  When she heard of it, secondhand, Mrs.

  Birchfield laughed till she cried.

  "My God!" she said, "I'd like to've seen her

  getting up there!"

  For Mrs. Severin, you see, was a very stout

  old lady,

  A spilling mass by buttons, shawls, pins and

  ribboned eyeglasses held together

  The eyeglasses were a shift of drama: hoisted

  for reading aloud, lowered for talking;

  They were not interruption. Mrs. Severin's soft

  incessant sibilance

  Through all the days she visited and rocked

  by the window

  Braided inextricably Bible and autobiography.

  Jesus was near.

  'The morning Encampment began the Lord

  suddenly told me to go.

  Ran all the way downstreet to the cars for

  Canobie Lake,

  Didn't fasten my dress or tie my shoes. Left the

  house open. Young ones at the neighbors.

  'Lord,' I said, 'I am thy servant'—and stayed the

  whole beautiful, blessed week."

  On the listening child her showers of quotation

  pattered a drugged dream.

  "'Thought becomes word. Word becomes act.

  Act becomes character. Character becomes

  destiny,'

  Remember that. And praise the Lord," she said,

  giving off also

  Odor of camphor, old rose jars and muttonleg

  sleeves.

  "Amen!"

  The husband long gone who wasted her

  inheritance; the irritable children

  Who hated to have to have her now; the friends

  who took her in now and again: gone.

  Here in her false hair and hand-me-downs,

  patiently talking—talking:

  Old Mrs. Severin who once, brave on a

  diningroom table naked confronted her

  unanswering Lord.

  Winfield Townley Scott, 1951

  Next | TOC> The Highwayman
> Auden

  The Unknown Citizen

  To JS/07/M/378

  This Marble Monument Is Erected by the State

  He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be

  One against whom there was no official

  complaint,

  And all the reports on his conduct agree

  That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned

  word, he was a saint,

  For in everything he did he served the Greater

  Community.

  Except for the War till the day he retired

  He worked in a factory and never got fired,

  But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.

  Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views,

  For his Union reports that he paid his dues,

  (Our report on his Union shows it was sound)

  And our Social Psychology workers found

  That he was popular with his mates and

  liked a drink.

  The Press are convinced that he bought a

  paper every day

  And that his reactions to advertisements were

  normal in every way.

  Policies taken out in his name prove that he

  was fully insured,

  And his Health-card shows he was once in

  hospital but left it cured.

  Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living

  declare

  He was fully sensible to the advantages of the

  Installment Plan

  And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,

  A phonograph, a radio, a car and a Frigidaire.

  Our researchers into Public Opinion are content

  That he held the proper opinions for the time

  of year;

  When there was peace, he was for peace;

  when there was war, he went.

  He was married and added five children to

  the population.

  Which our Eugenist says was the right number

  for a parent of his generation,

  And our teachers report that he never interfered

  with their education.

  Was he free? Was he happy? The question is

  absurd:

  Had anything been wrong, we should certainly

  have heard.

  W. H. Auden, 1939

  Next | TOC> Arms and the Boy>